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twenty-three

Barbara Decter called her upstairs study her “office,” but Malcolm Decter referred to his, on the first floor opposite the laundry room, as his “den,” a term his father had used for a similar room in his childhood home back in Philadelphia. He had delayed going in to PI this morning, waiting until his wife and daughter had headed out for the drive to school—after which Barb was going to pick up some much-needed groceries. He wasn’t alone in his den, though. Schrödinger was stretched out—in his superstring configuration, as Malcolm called it—on the black leather couch. On the wall above the couch was a framed printout of a quotation from Captain Kirk, in forty-two-point Helvetica:

Genius doesn’t work on an assembly-line basis. Did Einstein, Kazanga, or Sitar of Vulcan produce new and revolutionary theories on a regular schedule? You can’t simply say, “Today I will be brilliant.”

Underneath that, in red Magic Marker, Barb had written, “Oh, yes you can, Honey!” And Malcolm had every intention of being brilliant later in the day. But for right now, he needed to do something that didn’t involve Ashtekar variables, the Kodama state, or spin-foam models.

And, yes, he was a geek; he knew that. He rather reveled in the notion, and had been quite pleased back when he and Barb were first dating that she had worn a button that said “I (heart) nerds.”

Indeed, it was the nerd in him that had been bothered thirty years ago when, in one issue of Superman, the giant yellow key shown outside the Man of Steel’s Fortress of Solitude had been drawn the wrong shape to fit in the giant keyhole in the Fortress’s door. That sort of spatial anomaly leapt out at him.

He’d carefully sketched various shapes that might have passed through the depicted keyhole, and outlined a series of transformations to the key that could have made it fit. He’d sent the whole thing off to DC Comics in New York, and had gotten back a form letter saying they weren’t currently open to freelance submissions. He’d been miffed—he hadn’t been looking for work but merely wanted them to get the geometry correct in future issues. It had been only one of many times he’d failed to communicate properly with neurotypicals.

Neurotypicals. He liked that term, which was very much in vogue among autism activists. Malcolm, in fact, had noted a lot of parallels between how the militant part of the autistic community spoke about itself and the rhetoric used by blind activists. Neither group liked the majority to be referred to as normal, since that implied that they were abnormal.

The procedure Dr. Kuroda had performed in September had hardly been the first time they’d attempted to give Caitlin sight, and Caitlin, he knew, had taken flak over the earlier tries from some students at the Texas School for the Blind. To set out to cure blindness implied that there was something wrong with it—and, the militants firmly believed, there wasn’t. No, they said, the drives to eliminate blindness (or autism!) came not from those who possessed the trait in question but rather from the people around them. Sighted people were uncomfortable around the blind, and neurotypicals were—he’d heard it said often enough—creeped out by autistics.

Malcolm did understand intellectually how hard it was on Barb and Caitlin that he rarely showed affection, and even more rarely spoke about his love for them. But he had made such progress—if they only knew! He hadn’t said his first sentences until he was four, and had never looked at people (they were so uninteresting, with no angles in their construction); now, at least, he could make brief eye contact with his wife and daughter when necessary. He knew he’d never feel precisely what neurotypicals felt, but he had learned, at least to some small degree, to ape their behavior.

He crossed the little corridor, entered the laundry room, and put out some Purina Fancy Feast Gourmet Gold for Schrödinger, who appeared almost at once in the room. As the cat was eating, Malcolm had a sudden urge to pet it. He crouched down—which, given his height, was an effort—and stroked Schrödinger’s back between his shoulders. Schrödinger looked at him with an expression that might have said—were he any good at decoding such things—We had a deal…

Malcolm recalled the comments Kuroda had made about theory of mind. Everything he’d said was no doubt true for neurotypicals, but he was not neurotypical. Indeed, many autistics—especially when they were children—failed to develop theory of mind, and they had particular difficulties with tasks requiring them to understand another person’s point of view or emotional state.

Certainly, that had been the case with him—and it still was, to a significant extent; he struggled with it every day. For him, that other people had minds was a philosophical point, rather than intuitively obvious. Occam’s razor said one should prefer the simplest theory, which clearly was that creatures that looked like him externally probably were like him internally.

On the other hand, Webmind might in fact be reasonably disposed to solipsism, believing that only he truly existed. After all, there simply were no other minds like his own, and so no reason for him to believe these others that it could only perceive indirectly were like him.

Malcolm straightened up, but he didn’t go back to his den; he had no instant-messenger programs installed on his computer. Instead, he headed on to the living room, and then went upstairs. His daughter’s room was on the right, and he entered it. The deep blue walls were still bare; perhaps he’d buy her a poster to put on one of them. The University of Waterloo bookstore sold a blowup of that famous Karsh photo of Einstein sticking out his tongue; he liked that, and so, by logical inference, he supposed she might, too.

He was always sad when he hurt Caitlin or Barb by failing to understand or respond to their emotional needs. But in this instance he thought he did have a handle on the matter: in a very real sense, his daughter loved Webmind. Malcolm felt no jealousy—but it was important to him that Webmind never hurt her emotionally, and to avoid that, Webmind would also have to learn to simulate human behavior.

Caitlin’s computer was off, and he’d never turned it on before. But he found the switch and waited while Windows booted.

He did wish he knew his daughter better. Barb had worked as a volunteer at the TSBVI, and so had spent most of her days, until recently, with Caitlin—but he’d always been busy with his work. Incredibly, she was sixteen now. All too soon she’d be off to college.

Caitlin had her instant-messaging program set to load at Windows startup. He clicked on the little icon in the system tray, and the chat window appeared. Among her buddies listed as being online was Webmind; of course—where else could he be? He clicked on the name and typed Hello.

There was no response, so he tried again: Are you there?

Still nothing.

And then he realized what, perhaps, the problem was, and he was pleased, even though it was by logical reasoning and not empathy that he worked it out: Webmind saw through his daughter’s eye; he doubtless knew that she was at school; he was therefore afraid he had been detected by an outsider. And so he wrote, This is Malcolm G. Decter.

The response was instantaneous: Greetings, Professor Decter.

Malcolm smiled; Webmind had paid attention while he and Caitlin were watching WarGames.

Caitlin thinks you have emotions, he typed, but I suspect this is not possible, as you lack the evolutionary history that gave them to humans.

Webmind responded instantly: You think that she thinks that I think that you think that she thinks that you don’t think that I have emotions.

Malcolm found himself smiling again, and wondered what algorithms one might employ to simulate a sense of humor.

Exactly. However, whether you have emotions or not, it is possible to give responses that will make—

He’d started to type “neurotypicals,” but backspaced over it.

—people feel comfortable interacting with you.

Indeed, said Webmind. Do tell.

And so he did.